never place any reliance on him, he's just as likely not to be there as-as-as anything," (Charlie is sometimes hard pressed for a simile.)

Why you would'nt hardly believe it, sir, but this morning when I went to take the 'bus out of the yard, there was that disagreeable person (Charlie did not say person but I will) looking as black as my hat."

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"Well, Dick," I say, "shall we have any rain to-day ?" "Rain or no rain, it don't make much difference," says he, "the 'bus is pretty nearly always splashed all over." Why, what do you mean," I says, "your disagreeable old -person," for I was riled and no two ways about it. "Well, it's time," he says, "I was a hour and half cleaning the 'bus this morning."

"Well, I says, the difference between you and me is that I put it on and you've got to take it off," which remark finished him entirely.

Charlie is always annoyed, and naturally so, when people are nearly being run over through their own carelessness which is of frequent occurrence, there being two such instances on the night I am speaking of.

The first person received something very unlike a father's blessing from Charlie, and the second an invitation to lie down while we ran over him accompanied by a look of the most supreme contempt that it was possible for Charlie's goodtempered visage to wear. We had now arrived at Coxford-street, where Charlie got down as he had previouly intimated. to me he would do; his object being to get shaved, as there is a famous shaving establishment within a few yards of where we stop each night. At this moment, the horsekeeper came up and in spite of his abilities "as sich,” I am bound to admit that in the capacity of a coachman he seemed (to use a mild expression) out of his proper element. He wore a shock beard, or rather a shocking beard, very long, very shaggy, and very rusty brown. He had on a pair of very tight and very shabby cord trousers, and boots that seemed to pine for Day and Martin; in fact, judging from their appearance they had been in the habit of pining every day for the last two or three years. If I add that he carried in his mouth a very short and very dirty clay pipe, I think I shall have

given as much description as is necessary of Dick, our temporary Jehu.

I must not omit to add, however, that he was accompanied by his dog, a very nice looking terrier who never left the omnibus as long as his master was on it; and I have heard it stated on good authority that if you could only succeed in finding Dick's dog, you might be certain that Dick was not very far off, and that when the dog misses his master he goes into every public house in the neighbourhood till he finds him. I am afraid from what I have said that my readers will form a very bad idea of Dick, but before they do so let me state that I have only looked at the black side of his character, he has a bright side which will also bear inspection.

He is honest, which is a great desideratum in one in his peculiar walk of life; he will go through fire and water for those he likes, and last, but not least, the horses and omnibuses he has to attend to are turned out in a manner that reflects the highest credit on him. This is the substance of the character Charlie gave his horsekeeper a night or two back, and as I have the highest opinion of Charlie's veracity, I have no doubt as to the correctness of the statement.

Poor Dick has just gone to try his fortune in New York, and intends, if possible, to better his condition, let us hope he will succeed.

I saw the other night from my position "on the box" a coachman I was used to ride with some year or so ago and who rejoices in the name of "Georgy." Now why he is called “ 'Georgy," which is not his name in preference to Thomas, which is his name, neither he nor anybody else knows, and in despair of finding out the true reason, I must leave the solution of the "Georgy" mystery to wiser heads than mine. I have heard that "Georgy" can sing a first rate song and that the touching pathos with which he relates the history of a certain old arm chair would bring tears from the eyes of even an omnibus conductor.

Charlie very seldom indulges in repartee, but when he does, I am bound to say he is brilliant, and his sarcasm is perfectly withering. I remember once riding with him when a discussion took place between him and a passenger who had been chaffing" Charlie, and who, losing his

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temper when he found he had his match said "you forget your position, remember you are only an omnibus coachman." Charlie's answer deserves to be handed down to posterity. It was brief but to the purpose. "I can never forget I am only an omnibus coachman while I drive such things as you about." The passenger was crushed, he coloured up for a moment, and then seemed perfectly oblivious of all around him for the remainder of his ride. Charlie never strikes a man when he is down, he saw that vulgarly speaking, he had knocked his opponent over; and he forbore to speak at him during the rest of the journey.

As far as I have been able to learn Charlie's life has not been one of adventure. The only time when he met anything at all approaching an adventure, was on the occasion of his watch being stolen. It was a winter's night, and Charlie was going home about half-past twelve or one o'clock, when just as he had reached a broad but rather dark street near Westminster Abbey, he was set upon by three men, being, as he remarked to himself at the time, just one too many," the one too many being behind him and the other two in front.

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To knock one down and to prepare to treat the other in a similar manner was to Charlie the work of a moment, but unfortunately he had calculated without his host, or rather, the man behind him; who compressed his throat till Charlie was nearly insensible, thus rendering useless all his efforts to defend his property from the man in front, who had, by this time, torn open his coat and was in the act of snatching the watch and chain. I have before remarked that the street was dark, but fortunately there was a lamp within two or three yards of them, and Charlie resolved, if possible, to get his assailant's face under the glare of the light in order that he might be able to recognise him again. In this manœuvre he was partially successful, for at the moment his watch was snatched from him he had worked himself into the desired position, and as the thief released Charlie from his grasp and stood one moment to recover his breath, in that moment the friendly gas had revealed to Charlie one of the most villainous countenances it had ever been his lot to see, and he hopes he "will never look upon his like again."

The man that Charlie knocked down had been insensible during the whole of the struggle, which lasted some three minutes, and it was not until he was lodged in Rochester Row Police station that he seemed to recover his faculties. Charlie gave such an accurate description of his property and the man who stole it, that both were recovered in the course of the next twenty-four hours; the former was restored to its owner, and the latter with his accomplice was kindly provided with board and lodging for three years, Government undertaking to pay all the necessary expenses for the same.

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It

The man who did the "compressing" part of the business was never taken. will be seen by this adventure (if I may give it such a dignified name) that Charlie possesses plenty of courage, and that he is blessed with a large amount of common sense, as witness the idea of the gas lamp and making it the means of identification. Charlie having had sufficient experience of "birds of prey," bethought himself that perchance, birds who were not of a preyful disposition might be more agreeable companions, and accordingly established an aviary on a limited scale in his apartments, and a very respectable aviary on a limited scale" it is, for I have paid it a visit and can speak from personal knowledge of the matter. I remember he had a parrot, some half dozen canaries, and three or four larks, and "such larks," as Joe Gargery would say. Charley always was, and always will be noted for his larks, and it is quite a common thing for him to refuse five pounds for a favourite bird. His cages are made after his own design and cost him as much as ten or fifteen shillings apiece, and yet he has always plenty of money in his pocket, and what is more, some hundred or so in the savings bank, and in spite of all this he is "only a coachman."

'How," you will ask "does he do it?" I will tell you. He is a capital manager

and manages his capital in a very clever manner, his wife is as good a manager in her way as her husband; and so, between them both, they have been able to save some money.

Charlie has never been out of employment since he was quite a boy, and, as he very justly observes, "if a man and his wife cannot save something on six shillings a day they ought to be ashamed of them

selves." Then again, Charlie has had some money left him, and by a lucky investment in a house that the railway required some twelve months afterwards, he has more than doubled his capital.

You will say that I have done nothing but praise Charlie in this article. Well, I am not foolish enough to think my coachman perfection as a man, but his many great and good qualities outweigh his few and little faults, that (in my eyes, at least) he is perfection as a coachman. In conclusion I beg to say, if any one doubt the truth of what I have said about Charlie, let him occupy the vacant place by my side one night; I can promise him a good cigar from my case, and with regard to conversation, Charlie will do his best from his seat 66 on the box."

My Vis-a-Vis.

THERE's a fair-haired stranger over the way,
Like the sun her glossy tresses;

The rose tint suffuses her peach blossom cheek,
She blushes and smiles, but she will not speak,
But her tiny canary caresses.
Ah me! ah me!

What would I not give that bird to be.

Each morning the fair little maiden appears
At the lattice that faces mine,

With a band as white as the new-fall'n snow,
She tends the clematis and roses that blow
On th: sills and each other entwine.
Ah me! ah me!

I bow, but she cannot, or will not, see.

I've sent to this maiden over the way
Books, flowers, and billets-doux,

But with hauteur the books and the flow'rs she returns,

And oh, my poor billets, I hear that she burns Unread, and I'm 'fraid she does too. Heigho! heigho!

What can possess this maid to treat me so.

Oh. that the maiden whose glances and smiles Have me in love's ecstacies thrown, Would give me one little five minutes, to tell How I, poor unfortunate, love her so well, And am panting to make her my own, Heigho! heigho!

Do you think she would take me, or bid me go. URSA MINOR.

A WORM'S PROTEST.-I will be content with detailing the conduct of an offender, not as being more aggravated than that of others, but who, as a tradesman, could not plead some excuses under which his less informed neighbours take refuge. A tailor (not high in his profession),

crossing a line at Battersea, was literally cut in twain by a passing engine. An inquest was held, and the company exonerated from all blame; but in consideration of the poverty of the widow they offered either to provide a coffin for these two eighteenth portions of a man and pay the burial fees, or give the widow two soverings. Although deeply wailing, and refusing to be comforted by ordinary consolation, the bereaved one was able by a resolute effort to withdraw herself from the contemplation of the merits of the departed, and apply the faculties of her mind to consider which alternative she would close with. For the space of fifteen seconds she was undecided; she then claimed and received the cash, and sent for a bottle of gin to aid her finite mind in realising her infinite loss. The arrival of the liquor got wind she was now overwhelmed with ordinary and extraordinary consolations by an accumulating influx of female friends, and more stimulants were indispensable. This was repeated for several days until, her money gone, she was reduced to her normal state of impecuniosity. She not having the slightest prospect of ability to provide a coffin, when the tailor had attained a post mortem age of one week, a small builder who had known something of him volunteered to do the needful. Rather short of room at home he was repairing a large empty house near, so thither the remains were taken, until, as he phrased it, "He had time to make a coffin. The builder's son, who, when the repairs were completed, was deputed to show applicants over the house, remonstrated with his father (who had not yet "found time" to set about the carpentering, although another week was gone) on the prolonged retention of the man of cabbage, now that people coming to inspect the place complained of a disagreeable odour pervading the property. The good natured man wishing to please all parties, removed the offending moieties of the tailor to a summer house at the bottom of the garden, and when a few more days had flown it occurred to him to knock up a coffin and bury the dead. All this time his proceedings where well known in his district, without evoking any particular comment; and I verily believe that if he had remained another month unable to "find time" for his part of the undertaking no official intervention would have greased his wheels,

PART III.

ANXIOUS and concerned on Agnes Medwin's account, I sat in troubled thought long after the sound of their footsteps had died away. What was Flora's motive in plotting against her? what could it be, but ill-will? Yet there seemed to be no cause for enmity. Agnes was not her rival, and although Flora had shown me that she was fully aware how much the contrast between them told to her own disadvantage, it would not be evident to many, and least of all to her lover. Would she succeed? would he lend himself to anything so dishonourable? Surely not; surely I could not have been so far mistaken in my judgment of him as that! Again and again did I assure myself that Sir Edward was utterly incapable of playing the part that Flora assigned to him, and that the very suggestion must have disenchanted him. But, confident upon the point, as I declared myself to be, I crept away to my room, carefully avoiding the young party, whom I heard starting on an expedition to B. It was only at the dinner hour, when the last bell rang, that I summoned courage to descend to the drawing-room; being just in time to follow in the rear with Agnes Medwin.

Flora was in high spirits; talking gaily in her innocent way to Mr. Medwin, who had just arrived and whom Jane's diplomacy had separated from a more dangerous companion at the table. He evidently listened to her brilliant patter with an effort, his eyes frequently wandering away to Edith's face, as though its quiet gentleness was a very refreshing contrast. Sir Edward Sefton and Edith were no restraint upon each other; both being silent and abstracted. Stealing a few anxious glances at Sir Edward's thoughtful face and downcast eyes, I became aware of a change in him which wonderfully raised my spirits; and later, when the gentlemen joined us in the drawing-room, it was even more apparent. Indeed, he appeared so altogether unlike

himself, that even Jane perceived it; and whispered to me, "a lover's quarrel."

Nothing doubting that Flora had overreached herself and opened his eyes to her true character, I was quite satisfied with the aspect of affairs, and nodded a goodhumoured assent.

Sir Edward wandered restlessly about the room, in an absent way, tossing over the books and prints on the tables; now and again looking in a searching, questioning way at Flora, as though he were mentally repeating the word, "impossible!" At length, as if obeying a sudden impulse, he went hastily to her side; too absorbed in his purpose, whatever it was, to lower his voice or attempt my concealment that a crisis was at hand, he said hurriedly, "Come out to the Terrace."

She rose, and adjusting a becoming wrap over her dimpled shoulders, went out with him.

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'Over," said Jane, with a contented smile. Then, calling Edith to her side, she entered into a discussion with her about a treat to be given to the school children of B. Withdrawn from a more interesting conversation, poor Edith was very distraite, and, no doubt, Jane found her readier to offer money than advice for the furtherance of her plans

I went towards Agnes, who was good naturedly singing some of Flora's songs to Arthur Lawrence. Waiting a pause, I asked her to come out and enjoy the sunset with me. "You are not looking very bonny this evening, my dear; and the fresh air may do you good."

She rose at once, "It will do me goodto come with you, Miss Seward," and I knew she was sincere. When alone with me, Agnes Medwin never seemed to feel, and never made me feel, that I was an old woman upon whom fascinations would be thrown away, as did Flora Greville. The one lost all her gay, affectionate manner when we were alone together; while the other threw off the slight reserve which tinged her bearing in society,

and expanded into a very intelligent companion. We went from the terrace down towards the lake. Bathed in the glory of the dying day, the scene had a new charm, and we stood on the grassy margin of the water entranced by its loveliness. The woodlands were becoming darkly and sharply defined against the clear blue sky, and the view seemed to extend to immeasurable distance. In the atmospheric effect, the island rising out of the transparent lake appeared much larger than it really was-looking with its temple glittering in the golden light and its many tinted trees and shrubs, a very fairyland-and the delicate yacht, such a fitting means of transit thither, that if we gave way to the impulse and unfurled its white sails we should glide away from material life altogether. After standing silent a few moments, I glanced at my companion, expectant of some word or look eloquent of admiration. There was a world of sadness in her eyes, and, I am obliged to confess, something very much like an expression of anger about the compressed lips, and rather defiant carriage of the head.

Sorrow, pride, and anger! I had not seen one of those expressions in her quiet face before. Not a little surprised and puzzled, but wishing to appear unconscious, I said:

"Is it not a lovely, peaceful scene ?" "Yes; I suppose so- -too peaceful, is it not?" There was a sharp pain in her voice in bitter contrast with her words, as she went on with an attempt at a smile. "I think we poor imperfect mortals feel more at home with the elements when they are a little less calm. It seems more real to have something to battle against. The peace and rest here are intolerable contrast with

"With what ?"

"Life-everything!" she answered impatiently, as if hardly aware who put the question. "I don't believe in correspondences. Nature only tantalizes with such scenes as this, which symbol nothingnothing!"

This from my heroine, whom I had perched upon a pedestal of perfection, and whose mind I had flattered myself was an open book to me! completely bewildered I murmured some common place remark about the "fitness of things."

"That depends upon one's own estima

tion as to what the fitness of things she answered, with a short bitter laugh. "It seems to me not fit that good should mate with evil; and yet

Her eyes met mine, and a burning blush suffused her face even to her delicate throat. "I beg your pardon, Miss Seward -I beg you not to notice my absurdity. I'm afraid I was thoroughly out of temper, and talked as insanely as angry people generally do.

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Agnes!-dear child!"

For a moment she strove with herself, making a painful effort to speak in a careless tone; then cast her arms about me and gave way to a flood of tears. No need for the soft pleading touch of her fingers upon my lips-her grief, whatever it was, was sacred. Presently she recovered selfcontrol. "I will not apologise again, dear Miss Seward."

"Thank you, I think you and I can afford to do without apologies and compliments, my dear." Drawing her to a garden seat, I added: "And now, I must tell you that one reason for my seeking an interview with you this evening was to ask you a question." I went on in all sincerity; with the intention of withdrawing her thoughts from regret, and certainly without having the slightest suspicion as to what was the cause of that regret. "To ask you whether there has ever been any ill feeling between Flora Greville and yourself?"

She looked a little disturbed by the question, and hesitated before replying in a low voice.

"There has never been much sympathy between us."

"That would be apparent to a very dull comprehension, my dear, but have you directly offended her in any way ?"

"Before your arrival I spoke to her about Mr. Lawrence."

"In a way to rouse her anger, Agnes?" "Yes, she was extremely angry at the time, and sometimes I think that she has not forgiven me yet. I expressed myself in strong terms about her leading him on to hope as she did then; it seemed solely for the amusement of ridiculing him afterwards, and threatened to inform Mr. Sefton that she was doing so."

Ah, here was the explanation of Flora's enmity!

"Heartless little creature! I only wish that the fact may become palpable to Sir